Orchard Roots

Drifting back to days gone by,
Touching trees and earth and brilliant sky.
The sun is blazing, T-shirt's soaked.
Jump in the pond, relax and float.
On a hot summer day in '63,
I'm picking peaches from the tree.

Apples to spray and cultivate corn.
Wagon load of tomatoes just this morn.
Never in a market will senses meet,
Tree ripened peaches, so soft and sweet.
Fuzz all over, just can't shake free.
From picking peaches from the tree.

Bold college days in Happy Valley.
Books and bars and football rally.
Hit the books and make the grade.
Or snowball fight or panty raid.
When summer comes, back home I'll be,
Still picking peaches from the tree.

Dark moonless night, I'm in the seat.
"Call the Ball", at 200 feet.
Pitching deck, it's black as ink.
Do it right or land in the drink.
My restless soul drifts out to sea,
Back picking peaches from the tree.

'Twas throbbing fate right from the start.
Sparkling eyes, tremendous heart.
Critical thinker, she loves to laugh,
Picks me up when I'm outta gas.
For thirty-one years -- 'Tween you and me,
I've picked her peaches from the tree.

Many a day has passed since then.
Memories flow from where I've been.
My roots are deep and give me pause,
To treasure life, embrace a cause.
My last trip home, I expect to be,
Out picking peaches from the tree.
Ever picking peaches from the tree.

Dedicated to my Dad and Mom, who have
loved me well beyond picking peaches.
Connie Bo
January 26, 2006